Santa Cruise (16 page)

While the Reillys were waiting for Dudley to join them, Regan and Jack called over one of the waiters, who refilled their coffee cups.

“Were you here when the Lido opened at six?” Jack asked.

“Yes I was, sir.”

“Did you notice the Santa Claus who would have been among your first customers?”

“He was the first customer,” the waiter said,
then laughed. “I think he was one of the two Santas who were the first to arrive for the late-night buffet as well.”

The Reillys looked at each other. “Doesn't that buffet start practically as soon as dinner ends?” Nora asked.

“What can I tell you? People like to eat on cruise ships. The buffet starts at eleven, but we were just setting up when the two Santas came through the door. There wasn't much out yet. They piled their plates with cheese and crackers and grapes.”

“Sounds as though they missed dinner,” Luke suggested.

“There were eight Santas in costume at dinner,” Nora said positively. “I'm sure of it.”

“Anything else I can get you?” the waiter asked.

“No, that's fine. Thank you,” Regan said. As the waiter walked away, Dudley approached them. Yesterday's beaming cruise director looked as though he needed both a tranquilizer and a good night's sleep.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice automatically trying to achieve his usual cheery sound as he sat down. “I feel just terrible about Mrs. Meehan—”

“Dudley,” Jack interrupted, getting right to the point. “We believe that there are one, if not two,
persons walking around this ship in the stolen Santa suits. Mrs. Meehan is almost positive that the Santa she saw this morning had only one bell on his cap. We want you to call a meeting of the ten Santas as soon as possible, and ask everyone who has a Santa suit to bring it to the meeting so we can confirm that none of the eight caps are missing a bell. If they all are intact, then we can be pretty sure that one of the stolen Santa suits is being used by someone on this cruise.”

Dudley put his hand over his heart, as though to slow its beating. “I'll do anything you say.”

Then Regan filled him in on Maggie Quirk's sighting.

“Oh, dear Lord!” Dudley sighed. “You know both Miss Quirk and Miss Pickering are roommates and are in the Readers and Writers group that is honoring Left Hook Louie. Maybe they are in on a big practical joke!”

The Reillys all shook their heads. “It would be easier for everyone if that were true,” Jack said. “But we don't believe it. We're convinced that there's at least one person running around this ship who has his own agenda in mind. Dudley, I need the passenger and crew list. I'll have my office check out everyone on board.”

Dudley was about to protest when Alvirah's voice called out, “Yoo-hoo!” She had a bandage
over her forehead, Willy in her wake. “You won't believe what I'm going to tell you.” She looked at Dudley. “I'm sure you'll hear this anyhow, so you might as well hear it now. Someone tried to kill Mr. Crater in the infirmary last night. He denies that it happened, but it must be the guy Maggie saw coming through the waiting room, the one who looks like Left Hook Louie.”

Dudley moaned. “I'll get those lists for you. Right now. Immediately.”

He jumped up, his feet barely touching the floor, only stopping to grab a cup of coffee on his way out of the restaurant.

A
t seven thirty, the ringing of Harry Crater's cell phone woke Gwendolyn and Fredericka. Ten-year-old Fredericka sat up in bed, fumbled through her drawstring purse, and grabbed the phone.

“Good morning! Fredericka speaking!” she chirped as she'd been taught in her etiquette class. “A warm greeting and then identify yourself.”

“I must have dialed the wrong number,” a gruff voice muttered.

A distinct click in Fredericka's ear signaled that he had hung up.

“How rude,” Fredericka said to her sister. “When one dials a wrong number, a sincere apology is in order for disturbing the recipient of that call. Well, no matter, it's time for us to go down to the infirmary and cheer up Uncle Harry.”

The phone rang again.

“My turn!” eight-year-old Gwendolyn cried, reaching
for it. “Good morning. Gwendolyn speaking!”

Gwendolyn heard a forbidden word in her ear. “What number is this?” the caller then asked.

“I don't know. This is Uncle Harry's phone.”

“Uncle Harry! Where the hell is he?”

“He's in the infirmary. We're just going to visit him now.”

“What happened to him?”

“He fell and couldn't get up, so they had to carry him out of the dining room on a stretcher!”

Gwendolyn heard the same forbidden word then a sharp command: “Tell him to call his personal physician immediately!”

“Thank you, Doctor. I will relay your message. Have a nice day.” She clicked off. “That doctor sounded grumpy,” she told her sister.

“Most old people are grumpy,” Fredericka answered. “Everyone we visit in the morning is grumpy. It's our job to make them happy, but it gets harder and harder. Let's get dressed and go.”

Three minutes later, clad in matching shorts and Santa Cruise T-shirts, the girls grabbed the pictures they'd been permitted to draw for Uncle Harry last night before bedtime. Fredericka's creation depicted the sun rising over a mountain. The subject of Gwendolyn's masterpiece was a helicopter landing on a ship.

As quietly as she could, Fredericka opened the
connecting door to their parents' bedroom. Through the crack, she heard the two of them snoring. “Situation normal,” she reported to her sister. “Let's go. We'll be back before they wake up.”

In the infirmary, they were told by the day nurse, Allison Keane, that Mr. Crater had already returned to his room. “I don't think he wants visitors,” she said.

The girls held up their pictures. “But we drew these for him!”

“How adorable,” Nurse Keane said insincerely. “If you leave them here, we'll get them to him.”

“But we want to see him. We love Uncle Harry!”

“I'm sorry. I can't give you his room number,” Keane said firmly.

“But—” Gwendolyn started to protest.

Fredericka nudged her. “That's all right,” she said. “Maybe he'll come to dinner later. Thank you, Nurse Keane.” Fredericka curtseyed and they ran out the door.

“But I wanted to see Uncle Harry,” Gwendolyn whined.

“Follow me.” Fredericka found a house phone on a table in the passageway. She picked it up and asked for Harry Crater's room. When he answered, he sounded mad. “How are you feeling?” Fredericka asked, after properly identifying herself.

“Lousy. What do you want?”

“We drew pictures for you and want you to have them. We think they'll make you feel ever so much better.”

“I'm resting. Leave me alone.”

“We also have your cell phone.”

It was now Fredericka's turn to hear the forbidden word. “Where are you?” Crater demanded.

“Where are
you,
Uncle Harry? We'll bring it to you.”

Crater gave them his room number. A few minutes later, the girls were knocking on his door. When he opened it, it was clear he wasn't going to invite them in.

“Your doctor called!” Fredericka reported. “He wants you to call him.”

“I'll bet he does,” Crater mumbled as he grabbed the phone.

“Here are our drawings!” Gwendolyn said proudly. “If you have any Scotch Tape, we'll put them on the wall for you.”

Crater was staring at the picture of the helicopter landing on a ship. “Who drew this?” he demanded.

“I did!” Gwendolyn said proudly. “Can I have a ride in your helicopter some day?”

“How did you know I had a helicopter?”

“After you went to the infirmary last night,
someone told Mommy and Daddy that if you got even sicker and felt like you might die or something, then your helicopter would come and pick you up. How cool!”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, girls, I have to rest.”

“We'll come back later and make sure you didn't fall again. We like to take care of sick old people.”

Crater slammed the door in their faces.

The girls shrugged as they heard him turning the locks. “As Daddy would say, ‘No good deed goes unpunished,' “Gwendolyn commented. “But God is watching us and smiling.”

“Let's go get some coffee for Mommy and Daddy and bring it to the room,” Fredericka suggested. “You know how Mommy needs her coffee in the morning.”

Like a herd of elephants, the two girls thundered down the hallway, intent on performing their
second
good deed of the day.

I
n the living room of his suite, still clad in his blue-and-white striped pajamas, the Commodore was sitting cross-legged on the floor in an attempt to achieve inner peace. He was also bracing himself for the local news from Miami, which was about to appear on his specially equipped satellite television. At this point, inner peace was a pipe dream. He had imagined that owning the
Royal Mermaid
would bring him the solace he'd craved after three unsuccessful marriages and the passing of his beloved mother. No such luck.

The Commodore hadn't eaten a thing yet this morning. Eric had returned to the suite and told him about Alvirah Meehan's accident just as Winston was rolling in the breakfast cart. What else can possibly go wrong? the Commodore wondered. As if to answer his question, the insistently dramatic theme music of the eight o'clock news erupted from the television.

“Good morning, everyone,” a handsome anchor with a Botoxed face said buoyantly, smiling at the camera. “It's December twenty-seventh. At the top of our news this morning is the widening search for Bull's-Eye Tony Pinto. There have been several reported sightings of him near the Mexican border and in Canada, but they all have turned out to be false leads. His wife, at home in their Miami mansion, keeps insisting that she's very worried about ‘my Tony,' as she refers to him. She claims that she woke up yesterday morning, and he was gone. She's afraid that the stress of his upcoming trial has broken his spirit, that he may have blocked out his past life, and is wandering around in need of help. She's offered a reward of a thousand dollars for anyone with information leading to his whereabouts.”

“A thousand dollars! Give me a break,” the Commodore muttered. There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” he barked.

Dudley entered the room, and the Commodore motioned for him to keep his mouth shut.

“—Mrs. Pinto is having flyers passed out all over town with a photograph of Bull's-Eye holding up the Distinguished Citizen's Award he received from an unknown group.”

Will I have to run away and hide to escape my troubles? the Commodore wondered glumly. I
thought spending my days at sea would be so carefree and rewarding. . . .

“And now,” the anchor continued, “Bianca Garcia is back to tell us more about the Santa Cruise that sailed from the Port of Miami less than twenty-four hours ago. Bianca?”

The camera swung to Bianca, who despite only getting a couple hours of sleep, had never looked more bright-eyed. In her mind she was already at Rockefeller Center hosting the
Today
show.

“Let me tell you, Adam, that is some strange cruise going on out there on the high seas, and the unexpected storm that rocked the boat last night is the least of their problems. . . .”

The Commodore started to get up, but pins and needles had developed in his legs and feet. He lost his balance and slumped clumsily to one side.

Bianca briefly recapped her earlier story. “. . . And last night after the broadcast, I heard from one of my contacts on the ship. There was more excitement. Two Santa Claus suits were stolen from a locked supply room, and a woman from the Readers and Writers group came screaming into the dining room during dinner, swearing she had seen the ghost of Left Hook Louie in the chapel! Moments ago, I heard that the famous lottery winner Alvirah Meehan slipped
and fell on the deck this morning while she was trying to catch up to one of the Santas on the cruise, who was apparently running away from her. How rude! I thought there was supposed to be a bunch of do-gooders on this cruise! What's going on? Last night, I said that maybe the ghost of the original owner, Angus ‘Mac' MacDuffie was on board. This woman claimed it was Left Hook Louie she saw.” Pictures of the two men appeared on-screen. “Can you believe it? They were both big men who wore tartan shorts. Personally, I think it must be the ghost of MacDuffie on board.

“Let's face it, MacDuffie was eccentric. He spent all his time on that ship, even after it ended up in the backyard of the family estate he had inherited from his parents. His mother and father were out-of-control collectors. They loved anything old, from a Greek sculpture to a battered washboard, and they never threw anything away. The house was so cluttered it was considered a fire hazard. The yacht was MacDuffie's escape. He loved being at sea, enjoying the wide open space. He said he never wanted to leave that ship, and I say he's still on it!

“Which of these two men is haunting the ship? Left Hook Louie, who is being honored, or ‘Mac' MacDuffie, who claimed the yacht would always
be his? E-mail and let me know what you think. As my spies continue to report from the Caribbean, I'll keep you posted. . . .”

Winston had come in the room during the newscast. He'd brought the Commodore a fresh pot of coffee and two pieces of whole wheat toast, hoping his boss's appetite would return.

“She is pounding nails in my coffin!” the Commodore cried.

“There, there, sir,” Winston said soothingly. “You'll see things differently after you have a cup of coffee. You know how your morning coffee always makes you optimistic and happy.”

“Winston, you always know what I need,” the Commodore said, glaring at the television screen, which now was showing a commercial for air freshener.